Sherlock Holmes: The Grand Scheme
by xelementaryx
Summary: Sherlock Holmes' mind rebels at stagnation, but when Watson's wife is kidnapped, he is given problems, work, and met with the most dangerous and intelligent adversary he has ever faced. The one and only Professor Moriarty.
1. Arrival of Dr Watson

Anyone that walked into the apartment of 221B, Baker Street on the cold and rainy Friday night would be invaded with the aroma of ink, some of it coming off freshly printed newspapers, and some of it coming off older newspapers. Though it would be hard to tell the difference, as they had been scrambled and mixed, carelessly strewn across the floor and nearly acting as new upholstery for the furniture. Rustling could be heard with occasional dismissive grunts and frequent sharp sighs of anger. Often, muffled streams of muttering filled the stirred air of the apartment, though upon inspection, one would find that no one but one man could be found within the walls of the apartment that night. That man was none other than Sherlock Holmes, a name which had been spread through London along with synonyms that had been created for it – some of them great, some of them flattering, and some of them not so readily repeated.

The knowledge that he was alone in the apartment had not gone unnoticed by Sherlock – on the contrary; he dwelled on it frequently. Not much of a man to admit to deeper feelings, even much less those of loneliness; his companion would not have been able to guess the pangs of solitary pain he felt. For even he, a master of deduction, had not been able to see this coming. Dr. John H. Watson had left to live a new life as a married man, with his love Mary Morstan; now Watson. More streams of muttering flew out from the man's unshaven face, as he clenched the latest newspaper within his hands, tired eyes flicking across the front page story, dedicated entirely to a wedding of two wealthy people.

"Exciting literature has gone downhill significantly," Sherlock muttered to himself, his voice hoarse due to his dry throat. Discarding the newspaper to the floor beside him, Sherlock reached for a bottle of clear liquid to replace it. Though the liquid held the appearance of water upon first glance, a taste of it would prove quickly that it was a strong whiskey.

Days were growing shorter as the winter months approached, as was Sherlock's patience. Lack of stimulation for the brain always resulted in highlighting eccentricities as Sherlock attempted to make up for its absence. The entire apartment had been lost in a mess of newspaper, trifling items, dishes and empty bottles that used to contain strong liquids that would numb Sherlock's mind. All this had taken place between the time the landlady Mrs. Hudson had taken leave from Thursday until Saturday morning, and now. Sherlock had driven himself mad enough to consider sinister reasons for which Mrs. Hudson had taken leave, when in reality it was for the reason of Sherlock Holmes' growing insanity that she had done it. Mrs. Hudson had left for Dr. Watson with hopes he might pay his companion a Saturday visit and drive away his restlessness. Completely unaware of this plan, Sherlock continued to numb his brain with the influential effects of whiskey, while it made him even more discombobulated than before.

"No clients… no cases… no… _excitement_," Sherlock rattled on, putting the lip of the whiskey bottle to his own, between each phrase. "Infernal rain! The way it keeps pounding upon the rooftop. _Mocking _me."

Another mouthful of whiskey was drawn from the bottle as Holmes continued to curse out the wet, inanimate object. His judgment had clearly been influenced by the clear liquid he drank, as well as his senses. Especially that of balance, because though he had propped himself up in an armchair, he teetered slightly – this way and that, as he prattled on about the motives the rain had to make him so miserable. Sleep had been creeping up on him all night, and as he traversed into the small hours of that night, the notion was regarded with more comfort, even though he dreaded tomorrow. To him, tomorrow would just be a meaningless repeat of today, with nothing to stimulate his mind save for the drugs that dear old Watson would always disapprove of.

"Take me, then!" Sherlock called out dramatically to the sleep that was fastening a hold on him. His words were slurred and hardly legible. "Take me and never give me back to this confounded world if that is your wish…"

His words faded with his consciousness, as sleep gripped him tight and cradled him with the aid of the whiskey, whose bottle now hung loosely in his hand as it draped over the edge of the armchair. Though this was the earliest hour that Sherlock had succumbed to sleep in many weeks, the dark circles under his eyes marked the fact that he was still far behind. Images flicked through his mind all night, but hardly any of them were significant enough that he would remember them in the morning. Drifting between deep and half sleep, Sherlock was partially aware of the sunlight that had spilled through the windows and upon his closed eyelids. The times he slipped into deeper sleep became less frequent and finally the cushion of sleep left him completely; his eyes opening and his body readjusting to his newly awakened state.

The first thing that had become obvious to Sherlock was the pounding headache that left an awful ringing in his ears. A strange taste was left in his mouth from the whiskey he had consumed the previous night, the very thing which had caused his headache. A sudden rapping upon the door drew a pained moan from Sherlock's mouth, before he cleared his throat to call out to who he presumed to be at the door.

"Now that I know you've returned, Mrs. Hudson, I would prefer not to be disturbed," He spoke his wishes tiredly. The muffled speech coming from the other side of the door told Sherlock that Mrs. Hudson wasn't alone, but he didn't have the energy or drive at the moment to pay any attention to who that was. Not much attention was required, as Mrs. Hudson had taken the entire matter into her own hands.

"We're coming in, Mr. Holmes!" She announced. Sherlock drew his hand up to his head and rubbed his temples with his forefinger and thumb as the door clicked and opened slowly. "What a mess you've made of this place!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, taking immediately to picking up the papers off the ground.

"I'd like you to leave those where they are, please." Despite the formality of Sherlock's words, they had been tinged with annoyance.

"Aren't you going to say hello to me?" The sound of the other voice caused Holmes to react, and he pulled his hand away from his face, standing upright as his eyes fell upon his companion.

"Ah, Watson! Aren't you a sight for sore eyes!" Sherlock approached his friend and patted him on the shoulder. Dr. John Watson looked upon his old friend and the state he was in, easily coming to the conclusion that he had been drinking, especially from the way his hand recoiled to his head with the clinking of glass bottles resonating through the room.

"I wish I could say the same for you, Holmes," Watson observed with laughter behind his words. Truthfully, he felt awful for his friend, for it seemed he hadn't caught a break since they went their separate ways. "How have you been?"

Sherlock looked around the room in response, where he noticed Mrs. Hudson reaching out to pick up a small lantern he had been tampering with.

"Don't touch that!" Sherlock cried out suddenly, but it had been too late. Mrs. Hudson's long fingers made contact with the lantern, and she let out a sharp, quick scream, causing Sherlock to groan quietly because of the ringing in his ears.

"It shocked me!" Mrs. Hudson said, drawing her hand back and inspecting it for damage.

"I've been keeping myself busy…" Sherlock replied to his friend, grinning apologetically at Mrs. Hudson who continued to clean, keeping a wide berth from the lantern.

"Not busy enough though, I presume?" Watson guessed. The answer was not revealed deliberately by Sherlock, but Watson knew he was right. "Where's Gladstone?" He asked suddenly by reflex, knowing how Sherlock liked to test anesthetics and such on him when he had no work to do.

"Has Mary come with you?" Holmes countered, not wanting to answer the question. Watson hadn't wanted to answer Sherlock's question either, as he knew the terms on which they had met had not been particularly favorable. Sherlock considered this for a moment before adding, "I'll answer your question if you'll answer mine." Watson seemed to agree on the implications.

"She has," he answered Sherlock's question in complete faith that his companion would hold true to his word. "Where's Gladstone?" He repeated.

"In the dining room. Where's Mary?"

"Browsing the marketplace. Is Gladstone conscious?"

"Should be by now," Sherlock replied, checking his pocketwatch. "Has Mary let go of the grudge she holds against me yet?"

"I should hope so. I've been helping her work up to it."

"Good." Sherlock stated.

"Good." Watson echoed.

"Good heavens!" Mrs. Hudson cried. Instantly, the two reunited friends' heads turned toward her and saw her recoiling from a white and brown lump that had begun to move under a stack of newspapers.

"Ah, Gladstone! I thought I had left you in the dining room," Sherlock observed as the dog removed itself from the newspaper pile and trotted up eagerly to Watson.

"Gladstone, old boy! I have missed you," Watson eagerly pet the dog, whose tail wagged in affection. An expression of concern shot across Watson's face as he observed his beloved pet's crooked face, as though half of it was still asleep.

"How peculiar," Sherlock was also setting his gaze upon the dog, studying him. "Old Gladstone must have gnawed on the sedative before swallowing it." A look of subtle horror was placed upon Watson's face. Sherlock observed his friend's expression and continued to speak, an assuring tone in his normally unconcerned voice. "Not to worry; it shall wear off in mere hours."

"Surely you'll be the end of this poor dog, Holmes!" Watson exclaimed, softly massaging the sleepy-looking side of the dog's face.

"What is the time, Watson?" Sherlock asked suddenly, changing the subject. Noticing that Sherlock seemed to be in a far better mood than he was previously, Mrs. Hudson gave a look to the confused Watson that said she wished for him to humor his friend.

"Why, it's…" Watson reached into his vest pocket, only to find the watch wasn't there as expected. It was a mystery to him why Sherlock knew it was gone. It hadn't been on a chain or anything blatantly obvious. "It's missing! Had you known?"

"I am sure Mrs. Mary Watson is finding everything she desires with your hard-earned money in hand." Sherlock stated, without answering the question.

"Really, Holmes!" Watson was amazed at how his friend could come to this conclusion. "You must tell me how you knew!"

"It's quite simple, really, Watson." Sherlock responded, going through the familiar motions. "You had already mentioned that Mary was in the marketplace, browsing. I can also see by how she has dressed you that she has rather expensive tastes. You dressed presentably while still living in Baker Street, but there are subtleties that prove that standards have been raised. Your jacket buttons are polished to perfection, your shoes are un-scuffed, your moustache neatly trimmed, and your new hat looks quite becoming on you, Watson."

"Well thank you, Holmes, but how did you know-?" Watson's bumbling was interrupted by Sherlock.

"That you lent money to your wife?" Watson nodded, speechless. "It just so happens that you are unsure as to your dear Mary's reactions within my presence. That much was clear when you said you _hoped _she had gotten over that grudge she held against me. There is no way Mary would have come into town without bringing some money of her own, though in an effort to keep her busy while you visited with me, you lent her some of your own funds hoping she would be entertained for longer. By this time, you have checked your pocketwatch and noticed that the time was nearing to that which you agreed to Mrs. Hudson that you would arrive here. You are a punctual man, Dr. Watson. You wouldn't be late, especially with the urgency upon which Mrs. Hudson called on you. She gave you a time earlier than when she knew I'd be waking up, so I wouldn't get the chance to tell her these arrangements were unnecessary. In a rush, you mistakenly handed Mary your pocketwatch along with your money, as it was fresh in the top of your pocket, and hadn't noticed, because you were too busy calling for a passing cab. Mary didn't correct you, because she noticed your urgency. So here you stand before me, sans money _or _pocketwatch."

"Bravo, Holmes!" Watson applauded. Sherlock felt soothed – he had jumped for the opportunity to use his skills, as he had been without chance for so long. "But why wouldn't you want to see me?"

"It's not a matter of not wanting to see you, and I doubt it shall ever be. It's more a matter of the condition I'm in for company. I had a tireless night, and my head is in a sorry state. I'd prefer to be well when I visit with you."

Watson was entirely familiar with the state his friend was in. It was the sort that would make Sherlock very unapproachable, and Watson would wish there was something he could do. There would be nothing to help Sherlock except commit a brilliant crime that would take days to unravel – being a moral man; that was not at all likely! Instead, he had been forced to watch Holmes' restlessness until he came out of the mood. Evidently, Mrs. Hudson had been unable to take it any longer, which is why she had called for him. Watson could only call it a curse of a brilliant mind that Holmes was this way when he had nothing to use it for.

"How does some tea sound then, Holmes?" Watson suggested, attempting to adjust the somber mood that the conversation had left in the air.

"Even the strongest tea would taste weak to me now, but with some sweetener, it should be pleasant."

"I'll boil the water, then." Mrs. Hudson announced, taking an armful of empty bottles out of the room with her.

"Splendid. How's married life treating you, Watson?" Sherlock questioned, making his way past the sea of papers towards where his pipe sat on the mantelpiece.

"Even more wonderfully than I'd imagined, which is quite a task! Waking up every morning to Mary's lovely face, and spending the day with her… it is indeed far more than just 'pleasant'. I talk to her about everything – and she always has something to say that intrigues me. I do believe I have become heavily dependent on the fact I shall see her every day, and do not know what I would do if I couldn't see her… Holmes, do you even know what I've said?" Watson was sure his friend wasn't paying attention, as he was smoking his pipe and staring out the window.

"Of course I have. And with my intellectual abilities, I was able to deduce you have married the right woman. You seem to be fond of her," Sherlock answered sarcastically, looking over at Watson from his previous gaze upon the window. "I trust the plan was she wasn't coming here at all?"

"Yes – our butler Mr. Ripley is escorting her about."

"But they will be here soon." Sherlock stated.

"Whatever makes you say that?" Watson questioned, expecting another drawn-out, brilliant explanation.

"It is about to rain," Sherlock said simply, motioning to the window. "They have nowhere else to go but here."

"I see…" Watson said, glancing out the window. The clouds were beginning to look a darker shade of grey, and indeed it would rain any moment. He hoped Mary would be civil. She used every opportunity she had to complain about Sherlock in conversation. Watson was sure she had to be the only person who disliked Sherlock Holmes, save for those whose plans he foiled. With how much he admired the man, the notion that anybody could possibly dislike him seemed extraordinary. Especially someone with whom he was so compatible.

When Mrs. Hudson came in with a tea tray filled with a teapot, two teacups, saucers, cream and sugar, Sherlock informed her that they'd be expecting two more shortly, and so she left to get additional teacups and saucers. In a short amount of time, the sound of rain could be heard pounding upon the window and roof of the apartment complex. It was only a matter of time before Mary and Mr. Ripley would arrive, and surely enough, the sounds of two sets of shoes had started up the steps to the door of 221 Baker Street. The sounds of speech could faintly be heard from where Sherlock and Watson sat in the study, and finally the figures of Mary and Mr. Ripley could be seen. Mr. Ripley was a tall thin man, though solidly built, with warm brown eyes. He was aged, though his receded hairline added nearly ten years to his appearance. Though the butler's black hair was flecked with gray, his smooth face redeemed him of his other qualities that made him appear so aged. Mr. Ripley's smart suit had been soaked right through, though he had removed his jacket, and had given it to Mary so she could hold it over her head and keep dry; as her hair was without a speck of rain, her makeup equally untouched by the relentless precipitation. The two seated gentlemen stood up upon her appearance, and Watson walked over and put his arm around his wife.

"Mrs. Mary Watson," Sherlock greeted. "And you must be Mr. Ripley,"

"Sherlock Holmes." Mary's eyes flicked up towards Sherlock as he spoke, her tone having somewhat of a biting edge to it, though if Sherlock picked up on it, his expression didn't change, nor did his polite manner. Mary continued digging through her purse and pulled out a gold pocketwatch, handing it to her husband. "You mistakenly left this with me before,"

"Yes, thank you. Sherlock told me all about it," Watson said, with a nod towards his companion. He took the item from Mary and tucked it into his front pocket.

From the restrained look upon Mary's face, it seemed as though she was holding back from making a rather unwelcome remark towards Watson's dear Sherlock. Watson patted her shoulder reassuringly, his expression sliding into one of relief, as his wife had shown enough self-restraint to avert from a situation which would be most uncomfortable. What he didn't understand was why she was always so angry towards him. He had made one simple mistake that was hardly an issue at all… it made Watson wonder if she was getting some outside influence towards her opinion of Sherlock Holmes. Watson decided he would have to discuss it with him later on.

"Please, have a seat. There is some warm tea which I'm sure will be comforting after you've been in such cold rain," Sherlock invited cordially.

The three men seated themselves after Mary had taken a seat closest to the doors of the study, and Watson began to prepare a cup of tea for his wife, while Mr. Ripley sat politely in his own chair, with his legs crossed and his hands folded over his lap. There was silence as Mr. and Mrs. Watson drank their tea, Mr. Ripley looked curiously about the recently cleaned room, and Sherlock drew from his pipe.

"Mr. Ripley, how long have you been employed by Mr. and Mrs. Watson here?" Sherlock finally asked, breaking the silence to make polite conversation.

"Seven weeks, I believe it's been." Mr. Ripley's voice was smooth and deep, and it seemed to draw from the same pool of warmth that his eyes reflected. His face expressed little emotion however, though he appeared to be deep in thought. "I had just finished serving for another family; Mr. and Mrs. Watson were kind enough to ask for my services so I wouldn't be out of work for long."

"If you don't mind my asking, was this other family the Chilcotts?" Sherlock seemed to be as deep in thought as Mr. Ripley appeared, and though their conversation was trivial, there was clearly much more going on behind their words. Watson was sitting silently, watching the conversation with intrigue, while Mary kept her eyes upon the fine china that she sipped her tea from.

"Yes, they were," Mr. Ripley answered, seeming quite surprised. Sherlock nodded with confidence, and drew again from his pipe. Watson was surprised as well, as he had never known the name of the family that Mr. Ripley worked for previously and never thought it any of his business to ask.

There was another bit of silence, though no one seemed too bothered by it. The sound of rain could be heard, hitting upon the rooftop violently, and it seemed as the four people in the room all looked towards the window at the same time, observing the weather outside. It threatened not to let up for some time.

"Well, Watson… Mary, Mr. Ripley and yourself are free to stay here for the night if you find you don't wish to travel in such heavy rain. I understand it wasn't your plan to stay more than one day, as you've brought nothing, but I'm sure Mrs. Hudson can accommodate you all. Watson could stay in his old bedroom with Mary; Mr. Ripley could have my bedroom, and I shall be fine with the study."

Watson didn't argue Sherlock's generous suggestion that left him with the most uncomfortable accommodations, because he knew Sherlock hadn't been sleeping much at all. He doubted he would have made much use of his bedroom in the past few days because of it. Watson had no interest in travelling in the violent rain in fears it was even worse than it sounded, and it was sure that the rain would clear up by tomorrow morning, and they could take their leave then. In all honesty, it was likely good for Sherlock that he would be having company a bit longer, and Watson hoped he could use this opportunity to keep his friend from being bored to the point of insanity. Yet again, Watson had a burning feeling within him, wishing he could do something to help his friend and knowing he couldn't. He felt guilty although he knew he wasn't at all to blame. By no means did he want some poor soul tortured in any way before Sherlock could be relieved of his boredom by solving the case for him, but he didn't want Sherlock to be tortured either. It was hard, in that way, being the friend of Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

A/N: So, here's the first chapter of what I hope to be a good Sherlock Holmes story that ends up all I hope it to be. Please be aware that some of the content is taken from the movie, as in the books, Sherlock and Mary Watson have no problem with each other, and there are certain things that Sherlock does in the movies which he would _never _do in the books. So my Sherlock will be a bit of the mix of the two in order to add a little more chance for more outward humor and other certain scenes that I see playing out. Plus, the little differences between Sherlock and Mary are imperative to my plot - a plot you should know more about by the next chapter.

I hope you like it, but mostly it's just a story I'm writing for my own enjoyment. =)


	2. The Game's Afoot

After some brief conversation of no particular important topics, each of the people within the Baker Street apartment retired to their assigned rooms to spend the night. Everyone had taken their leave from the study with the exception of Sherlock Holmes, who had found himself a comfortable position on a lounging chair with a book of sciences within his grip. Mr. Ripley had been led to Sherlock's mess of a room, and Watson led the familiar path to his old room where he would be staying with his wife. The doctor had been expecting a mess reminiscent of the way living with Sherlock was, as his companion didn't enjoy cleaning up, and so messes were frequent throughout the rooms of the apartment. When he entered the room, he was pleasantly surprised to find that the room had seemed completely untouched since he had moved out. Of course, his personal effects had been removed from the room, but the bed was still there, neatly made with sheets, in the expectancy that someone should come sleep in it every night. The desk that Watson used to write up the intriguing cases and adventures his friend took was still tucked in the corner, with a stack of used paper in a neat pile in the centre of the desk. When Watson leaned in to see what the writing upon it said, he was surprised further to see that the neat writing with constant revisions was indeed his own. The stack of papers was none other than copies of cases he had written up, but was asked by his friend not to let anyone else read. It was a bit of a sentimental notion on Sherlock's part to keep the room the way it had been, and it enabled Watson to fully acknowledge how much his presence had been missed. Something that he knew Holmes would never say or consciously express. In most cases, it is the action that represented the feeling rather than the feeble words that scarcely represent the whole truth. Sherlock was much less of a cold, emotionless man than people often gave him credit for.  
Seeing the knowing smile on her husband's face, Mary broke in to Watson's thoughts.

"What is it?" She had asked, peering upon the papers that lay on the desk. Watson turned to face her, not expecting to hear her speak as he was lost in thought.

"Oh, they're just some cases I had written up while Sherlock was solving them."

"I'd always admired your writing, John. It expresses so much," Mary smiled, her confusion being smoothed out by the warmer expression.

"A little too expressive, in Holmes' opinion. He'd rather it just display the facts of the case, and only that."

Watson had always adjusted his writing style slightly to adhere to the preferences of Sherlock, and even then, it was hardly close to the expectations that Watson should write in such an unbiased manner of his extraordinary friend. Sherlock always seemed to find pleasure in Watson's chronicling, regardless. He allowed Watson to continue in this way, after all.

"I doubt Mr. Holmes is capable of expressing much," Mary commented flatly, walking to the bed and beginning the process of tucking herself into it.

"On the contrary. He's capable, but he just runs a different way than most folks do. He uses fact before feeling."

Watson left the desk with one more nostalgic look at the papers, and got into the bed he used to sleep in every night, pondering about the day until he drifted off to sleep. This night was hardly different from the others. The only difference was he would have to leave after breakfast in the morning, and he had Mary with him here tonight. The rain acted more as a distraction from sleep than the rhythmic lullaby people often described it as, but eventually, Watson was able to drift off, falling into a light but relaxed layer of sleep.

In a sudden moment, Watson was stirred by the loud sound of an irregular crash. He couldn't be sure if it had sounded so unlike thunder because he had been half asleep when he heard it. It would make sense if it had been thunder, but now that he was awake, he felt the need to investigate. Turning over, he saw that Mary was still in a deep sleep, and he didn't want to bother her. In a state of tiredness that almost reflected drunkenness, Watson stumbled out of bed as quietly as he could manage; seeking to find if Sherlock was awake in the study. The door opened and closed silently, and his feet padded on the floor as he walked along, but the sound could barely be heard over the heavy rain. When he reached the study, he was able to make out the silhouette of Sherlock on the lounge chair, but he was clearly fast asleep. Watson was certainly not going to wake him, as it was obvious he was sleep-deprived lately. A flash of lightening shot outside and lit the entire study in an eerie sort of way. A clap of thunder rang out, and then another... it seemed unnatural, and Watson had a horrible feeling that something was amiss. Not caring much about how quiet he was, Watson bounded toward his room and swung open the door to find a man standing there. It certainly wasn't Mr. Ripley. Watson didn't know this man. He was unable to make out features in the dark, but he could see the man wore a sort of cape that hung off his body in a strange manner. Over the man's face, there was a tied piece of cloth, so it was impossible to guess anything about his features. The strange man dressed in dark clothing became aware of Watson's presence, and advanced on him, bringing his arm out from under the cape. Suddenly Watson felt a pressure on his head, and knew the criminal was holding a gun to it. For the life of him, Watson could not think of anything that had any value in the room. Searching the space with his eyes, Watson became aware of the empty bed where only minutes ago, Mary was sleeping peacefully. She was gone. A wave of panic came over Watson, and the criminal began to speak in a muffled voice.

"Don't even think about following me. If you value your life, you'll follow these instructions to the letter." The man's voice had a distinct Indian accent to it, though it wasn't particularly strong. The mixed accent reminded him vaguely of something, but he couldn't think what. The man had reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper and transferred it to Watson's front pocket. With another warning glance, the man escaped out the window and left Watson in so much shock that he was unable to do anything for a few horror-stricken moments.

As soon as he regained enough composure, Watson reached into his pocket and pulled out the note the man had given him. The first thing he noticed when he unfolded it was the small, neat and slanted writing. However, he was in such a scared state of mind that he was unable to make any deductions like his friend would. His eyes flicked across the page, the knot in his stomach growing tighter each second. The note said this:

_Doctor, if you ever want to see your wife alive again, you will gather a sum of 2,000 pounds and meet a man in the Cursed Mermaid Pub to give him the money in two weeks. Don't send your detective friend after us - it won't do you any good._

Watson was horrified to learn that this wasn't some kind of random kidnapping. The felons had prepared it this way on purpose - they meant to kidnap Mary. They didn't want Sherlock Holmes on the case, but Watson was at a loss of what else to do. He fled from the room and went to the study, not caring about disturbing Sherlock's sleep anymore. He just wanted answers, and fast. When he arrived in the study for the second time that night, Sherlock wasn't in the lounging chair he had been in only minutes before. He was standing by the window, looking out, and turned around when he heard Watson approaching. Sherlock had opened his mouth to speak, but in a panic, Watson interrupted him.

"Holmes! They've taken Mary! Kidnapped her! What are we to do? They don't want you on the case... here, I have a note!" The frenzied doctor extended his hand towards Sherlock, offering him the note.

"You're far too worked up, Watson. You won't be thinking logically. I need you to calm down so I can ask you for details, do you understand?" Sherlock spoke slowly and coolly, as though they had simply had a nice visit with the criminals rather than a kidnapping occurring. Watson took a deep breath, realizing the truth of what his friend was saying, and feeling an awful twist in his stomach when he remembered the conversation he had been having with Mary before she was taken.

"Yes, I understand." Watson's tone had dropped a lot of the panic it previously held. He was reminded of the numerous times a client would burst into the apartment in a similar frenzy, and with his calm and collected attitude, Sherlock had always been able to talk them down to a mood where it was easier to communicate with them.

"Good. Can you please re-count the events up until you came to me?" Sherlock asked, folding his hands behind his back and casting his eyes toward the ground as he prepared to listen to Watson's statement.

The worried doctor told the detective of the loud sound that had stirred him, and how he had left the room and come back to find Mary missing. He described what he could of the man that gave him the note, and speculated that it must have been when he left the first time that the criminal had gotten in and taken Mary.

"And you say he was still in the room when you arrived - and Mary was not?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes,"

"There must have been two men, or Mary would have been able to run away while you were encountering him. May I see the note?" Sherlock held his hand out and Watson slipped the paper in his open palm. Sherlock's brown eyes scanned the paper once or twice before he spoke. "The Cursed Mermaid... that's by the docks. I imagine they'd want to make a quick getaway after you give them the money..."

"What if they find out you're on the case? They might hurt Mary... do you think they'd be good on their word?" Watson was falling into panic once again; thinking of the worst those criminals could do to his wife.

"These men are clearly run by a high level of greed, Watson. That is one of the two main motives to commit crimes. I do believe them to be good on their word... what do you make of the writing on this note, Watson?" Sherlock handed the note back to the doctor, who scanned the writing once more.

"It looks as though a woman has written it... it seems neat, and the writing is far smaller than I have ever seen a man do."

"Good work. And what do you notice between the first half and the second half of the letter?" After this query, Watson was a bit lost as to what he was looking for. He didn't sit in silence for long before Sherlock began speaking again. "The o's are connected fully in the first bit, while the ends are never making contact in the second bit. Obviously, something has happened in between that has required the writer of this note to rush the finishing of the note. A piece of information which very well may help us in the investigation. Now why don't you show me where the man had been standing when you entered the room?"

Watson and Sherlock made their way to the former's bedroom, where Watson motioned toward the general area a few feet from the door. Sherlock leaned down and investigated a few wet footprints that had been left behind by the kidnapper. He studied them closely, and Watson remained silent, knowing better than to disturb his friend during an undoubtedly clever train of thought. Finally, Sherlock stood and glanced out the window, turned on his heel and made his way to the bed.

"Mary slept on this side?" He asked shortly, and Watson nodded. Sherlock examined the strewn covers of the bed, muttering that this had been indication of a struggle. The more Sherlock investigated, the more worried Watson had become; his brow furrowed in a state of distress. He had no doubts of his friend's abilities, but he was so overcome with worry for his wife, that he could not help but fall into such a state.

"The sun shall come up shortly. I will be doing an investigation around the apartment outside when I have daylight assisting me." Sherlock spoke so suddenly that Watson gave a start, having been pulled away from his thoughts abruptly. Holmes, having noticed the state of his friend, put his hand upon the doctor's shoulder consolingly. "No need to fear, Watson. We'll have Mrs. Watson back shortly, and very much unharmed."

"I do hope so, Holmes. I do hope so..."

"There is some tea still in the study. Perhaps you would care for some to calm your nerves a bit?" The consulting detective suggested with an inquisitive eyebrow raised.

"Yes, of course..." Watson had truthfully heard little of what his friend said, but allowed himself to be led out of the room and back into the study, where soon a cup of tea sat before him. He brought it up to his mouth, his hand quivering slightly, and took a sip.

"Your face is ghostly white, Watson. Have you no faith we will recover Mary?" There was almost a hint of humor to Sherlock's voice, and Watson felt himself almost angered to know his friend was getting any amount of amusement out of this. He knew also that his emotions were running wild with fear, and it would be unfair to Sherlock if he lashed out at him now. After all, he knew Holmes would do everything in his power to get his wife back.

"I'm simply worried, and still not thinking straight, I'm afraid," Watson said apologetically.

"You were thinking straight enough to come to me for help, even when the note suggested otherwise. That's a start."

Sherlock took a drink of his own tea and stared toward the window thoughtfully. "I should hope Mary has as much faith in me as you do in her time of crisis, even though she doesn't think of me very fondly." Holmes' words struck a chord with Watson as he remembered something which he wished to mention to his friend.

"I don't think Mary dislikes you completely of her own accord." Watson said suddenly, and with the utmost seriousness.

"What do you mean, Watson?" Sherlock seemed intrigued.

"It seems as though someone could have been feeding the small part of her that wasn't too fond of you. It just seems unnatural that she would act in such a way toward you when she has little reason to."

"And do you suspect anyone of convincing her to think this way?"

"Well, no, actually... it is a thought that I just had recently. I can't think of anyone who would want to do such a thing..." Watson trailed off as he tried to think of who, when Sherlock's eyes flicked towards the window once more, and he cried out, "Ah, sunrise!"

Sherlock hopped to his feet with a passion in his eyes that had been absent when Watson first came to visit. Finally, Sherlock had a way to test the skills of his mind once again, it was just a shame it was under these circumstances. Watson also stood, though a little more slowly and with less of a hinting smile upon his face. The two men took their hats off the hat stand and left the apartment, only to find two policemen and an inspector from Scotland Yard - none other than Inspector Lestrade. The latter had been speaking with the two policemen, seemingly giving them some sort of orders, though he stopped speaking when he saw the inquisitive face of Sherlock Holmes.

"I do hope you haven't scuffed up the murder scene too much, Lestrade," Holmes said, and the Inspector became confused.

"Pardon?"

"The gunpowder on the first three fingers of your right hand tells me a gun has been fired, and there is no chance you would respond to something this quickly unless it had been serious." Sherlock said simply, with a casual wave of his hand. Lestrade's face regained the rather smug expression that was familiar to Sherlock and Watson.

"You're wrong, Holmes. It wasn't murder. It was suicide." Lestrade smirked; fully convinced he had the upper hand on the consulting detective. "I was notified earlier this morning and had believed it was murder, until I came to investigate."

"Suicide? I'll make my own observations once I have seen the evidence." The way in which Sherlock spoke gave Watson every reason to believe he already had his mind made up on a certain chain of events that would explain all the evidence he's already found.

"Suit yourself. It's all there still," Lestrade pointed toward the back of the apartment buildings and crossed his arms as Sherlock and Watson walked toward the area.

There was a man lying on the rather muddy ground, completely dead, with a gun in the palm of his right hand. Sherlock bent down next to the body and looked at the man's fingerprints through a magnifying glass, and then at the gun. Watson recognized the man as being one that he often saw begging for money. He was very poor and was known to have a terrible alcohol addiction. Suicide would certainly not be an improbable cause of the end of the man's life. Watson began to take a step forward to get to the body and estimate a time of death, but Sherlock quickly held a hand up.

"Do not take one step, Watson!" He warned. "Do you see those markings upon the ground right in front of you?"

Watson looked toward the ground and surely enough, there were markings that were not of footprints, but rather of someone being dragged along. A sudden feeling of horror came over him as he thought his wife might have been the cause of that line of marks upon the muddy ground. But surely, even though they were criminals, they would not treat a lady that way...

"Watson, are you supposing they dragged Mary through here?" Sherlock asked, deducing much from the returning worried look upon his friend's face.

"Yes, I am worried about that, Holmes."

"Then you shall be glad to know that your supposition is incorrect. The kidnappers actually carried Mary..." Holmes trailed off as it seemed he had caught a fresh scent of the clues he was investigating. He knelt down on the ground and picked up a handful of mud from within the strange tracks. Watson was a little thrown off by this sudden act of the eccentric man, but as he trusted Sherlock had every reason to do so, he kept quiet. As Sherlock was investigating the mud, Lestrade came around the corner and raised an eyebrow at the act which he saw.

"I don't believe you'll find any sort of clue in the mud, Holmes." Lestrade said rather condescendingly. It was amazing to Watson that the inspector had not yet realized the great ways in which Sherlock could deduce from the smallest things. He had proved himself time and again to the inspector. "It was a suicide - it is as clear as day,"

"Oh, it is?" Sherlock replied, picking himself up off the ground and being rather in the mood to play along with Lestrade's conclusion. "And here I thought it had been a cold-blooded murder. How silly of me."

"I told you, Holmes. This man had enough of his sad excuse of a life, never knowing whether he would make it to the next day or not. So he decided to put himself out of his misery. Simple as that. He has no one to carry on his name, no one to keep his memory alive. He died alone. Don't know why you're so interested."

"As you seem to have it all figured out, you can obviously answer a few questions for me." Sherlock said, looking back at the body and returning his gaze to the smug inspector, while he rubbed the mud off his hands. "Such as why this man has clearly looped fingerprints and those on the gun are distinctly wavy?"

"Stole a gun from another man, caught him off guard - likely in the pub. The barkeeper saw him in there last night." Lestrade answered briefly, and looked almost as though he didn't have the time to be answering such obvious questions. Except he had to hold his victory over Sherlock's head, so he stayed.

"Then what is your explanation of three very different footprints that were all clearly made around the same time early on this morning during the rain? Surely the space behind my apartment is not a popular one for spending one's time, especially so early in the morning." Lestrade was baffled at this one, but regained his composure quickly and huffed.

"It is inconsequential to the _solved _case of this man's suicide." Lestrade spoke firmly, and was ready to be done with Sherlock's interrogating as to what the facts were.

"I see... well when you're ready to admit that there is much more to this man's death than you might have originally presumed, I would be thankful for your help. Good day, Inspector." Sherlock strode off from the scene, having seen everything he needed, and Watson caught up with him a few moments after noticing he had left.

"What do we do now?" The doctor asked, trying to keep up with the brisk pace of Sherlock. "Where are we going?"

"We will continue the investigation a bit more to the north, as there were traces of mud from a certain area of London of which I am somewhat familiar."

While there were frequent occasions that Sherlock never ceased amazing his colleague, there were other things that Watson had grown accustomed to. Such as Sherlock's penchant for taking walks every so often and identifying the dirt from different parts of the city – such an act would have been considered strange and rather useless to many, but this was certainly one of the more eccentric things that Sherlock has done which actually has some sense behind it. As a consulting detective, the skill of analyzing dirt and its main locations came in handy. The two men walked briskly through the cold fog of the London morning, when Sherlock suddenly stopped in his tracks. Watson was taken by surprise by Sherlock's abrupt stop, and mistakenly ran into him, not being able to stop himself fast enough. Sherlock exercised a brief look of annoyance at his companion for not paying attention, but got over it swiftly and leaned down in the middle of the path to point out two long marks, parallel on the ground. Accompanied with them were the round 'u' shapes of horseshoes.

"I believe Mary's kidnappers stepped into the hansom a few feet back and took to the northeast within it," Sherlock announced, and backtracked a few steps with Watson following, looking curiously at the ground. "You see this, Watson?" He had pointed to a specific area on the dirt pathway and Watson nodded enthusiastically, seeing how his friend was on the right trail. Surely enough, there had been strange marks upon the ground just like what they had seen back in Baker Street. A small collection of different footprints were piled on top of each other, and Sherlock investigated them thoroughly.

"I still don't understand those marks that give the appearance of someone being dragged, even though you've said no one has," Watson voiced perplexedly.

His friend gave no answer, deep in his own thoughts as he stepped along the tracks of the hansom, inspecting the horseshoe prints closely. While he waited for his friend to become available to answering questions again, Watson looked around the area. He remembered being by the area a few times for his practice, visiting individuals who needed his medical attention. They had mostly been shopkeepers and such, as this part of town consisted mostly of stores and homes that were built on top of, or behind those stores.

"We have a great amount of luck on our side, Watson!" Sherlock exclaimed suddenly, standing up and putting his hand on the shoulder of his rather confused friend.

"You'll excuse me if I disagree with that statement, Holmes. I'm not feeling particularly lucky at the moment," Watson replied dryly. "What is it that makes you say that, anyhow?"

"Our little friends have gotten a ride from a very distinguishable hansom. We must search for one about this area that one of the horses driving it has a slight limp. Due to an ill-fitting horseshoe, of course." Sherlock explained, gesturing to the horseshoe marks he was investigating on the dirt road.

"We're not really going to stand around until we see a limping horse, are we?" Raising an eyebrow, Watson looked upon his friend, hoping he had a more effective plan of action.

"Don't be silly, Watson." The detective replied. "We're going to wire with a description of the horse and ask for the name and contact information of the driver. Perhaps he shall be able to shed some light on the kidnappers of your wife."

Watson detected a hesitant expression upon his friend's face as he finished speaking, though he didn't say anything, as he didn't want to highlight any uncertainty or anything else that Sherlock might have felt. He simply didn't want to know what caused that expression, though he had a feeling it was because Sherlock suspected the possibility of the hansom driver working for the kidnappers. Watson simply didn't want to hear the possibility aloud. He knew Sherlock was trying to be positive for his sake, because he would know how much Watson was pained by what happened to his wife, and the uncertainty that she was going to be alright. After all, what if the kidnappers knew Watson had dragged Sherlock into this case, even when they had strictly told him not to? He couldn't bear to think of the consequences.

"I have seen everything I need here," Sherlock declared after a moment's silence. He turned on his heel and was on his way back to Baker Street, with his confused and worried friend following after him.

Upon arriving back in the apartment, Sherlock and Watson found Mr. Ripley to be having breakfast with a rather uneasy look upon his face. As soon as he noticed the two of them enter, he jumped up and approached them, the uneasy look being accompanied by a pained expression.

"Have you found anything?" He asked, his normally deep voice shot up a few octaves due to his anxiety. The butler had noticed the absence of Mary, clearly.

"I have found plenty." Sherlock stated and stepped around Mr. Ripley to make his way to the table on which he had all his scientific equipment. The detective sat at the table and proceeded to place a clump of dirt in a small ceramic bowl, pouring the contents of one particular vial into the bowl. The two men that had remained standing watched him work for a few moments before turning back to each other.

"I apologize deeply for this setback, Dr. Watson. I can't imagine what could have happened to Mrs. Watson. I feel terrible." Mr. Ripley had been anxiously rubbing his large hands together, the epitome of nervousness.

"Sherlock Holmes shall solve the case, I'm sure," Watson replied, his tone seeming considerably less certain than his words. "There is nothing either of us could have done to prevent this occurrence… the kidnappers seem to be quite set upon their goal. I received a note from the man I met up with in my bedroom very early this morning, and it appears to me that they had thoroughly planned all of this out beforehand." The pained expression on Mr. Ripley's face grew more prominent, and his warm brown eyes were filled with worry for his employer.

"I gather you wish to stay in the area while Mr. Holmes looks into the case?" Mr. Ripley asked, trying to ease himself into a calmer state.

"Yes, I should hope to be of help to him," Watson replied. "I want to do everything I possibly can to recover Mary from those dastardly kidnappers. The nerve of them! Kidnapping a lady such as Mary and holding her for ransom - in a house where an incredibly clever detective lives, no less."

"And I trust you will be of considerable help to me, Watson." Sherlock interjected into the conversation, turning to face the men while sitting in the chair in front of his desk. His eyes were alight with the passion he had for solving crimes such as these, and some colour had flooded into his cheeks, either from the excitement or the chilled weather that Watson and he had just come inside from. "We have several traces that we can follow, and it should very much be like any other case we have completed together, only this time the stakes are higher and a little more personal. It only makes for a far more interesting case, wouldn't you say? The game's afoot, Watson, and you can rest assured that we will see this case through to the very end."

* * *

A/N: I apologize for the fact that it took so long to get this chapter up. It's been mostly finished for a very long time, but I just never got the chance to finish it completely. But I've had a little bit of time to work on it, and I'm glad that I'm getting this ball rolling again. Hopefully it won't take too long before I've got Chapter Three up!


	3. A Victim of Practice

Tension was stacked very high as Watson sat in the study with Mr. Ripley, the two of them speculating what Sherlock could possibly be doing, as thirty minutes previously, he had excused himself from the apartment, declaring he would look over a few minor tracks of the case and wouldn't return until he had the lead he was looking for. He had ordered Watson to remain at the apartment, claiming the doctor should be there in case a visitor should arrive – someone he was planning to contact during his outing. After all of Mr. Ripley and Watson's ideas had been talked over so much, there was no other possible angles to go over, Watson attempted to keep himself busy by reading the paper from Friday he had found draped over the couch. Though his eyes flicked across the page, he was aware he hadn't read a single word that was printed upon the paper he clutched in his hands. He was very high-strung at the moment, anxious to see if Sherlock should find the clues he should need to continue on with the case.

"If I had only stayed in the room with Mary instead of coming out here to investigate, this wouldn't have happened!" The agitated doctor exclaimed, tossing the paper aside and abandoning all attempts at keeping his mind away from these sorts of thoughts.

"You have already mentioned that nothing could be done about it – that the kidnappers' minds were set upon this plan of action, sir." Mr. Ripley consoled with an even voice. He sat up straight in his chair with his hands resting calmly upon his knees, though his warm brown eyes were filled with curiosity and kept flying to the door, expecting Sherlock Holmes to walk in any moment with news. "It would only be counterproductive to think back on what you could have done when you realistically had no idea what was going to happen."

"That is true, Mr. Ripley, but I cannot help but worry over how those kidnappers are treating Mary. The thoughts are plaguing me so terribly that I would do nearly anything to get them out of my mind,"

Just as Watson finished speaking, Mrs. Hudson came in with a tray of fresh tea and set it down upon a low table between the chairs Watson and Mr. Ripley were sitting upon. She poured two cups for the gentlemen and seated herself in the available chair across from Mr. Ripley.

"I think it's time you two stopped thinking so negatively," Mrs. Hudson offered. "I heard the two of you speaking while I was making tea, and every idea you came up with ended in some sort of disastrous accident. I must say, the chances of Mr. Holmes discovering Inspector Lestrade is actually an undercover agent, accusing him of being so and then the Inspector throwing Mr. Holmes in the Thames with an anchor are very slim."

"We might have let our imaginations run away with us a bit," Watson admitted sheepishly, pouring a teaspoon of sugar into the teacup closest to him. "But with Sherlock Holmes, the chance of having something even stranger occur is quite probable."

"Dr. Watson, you look terribly pale," Mrs. Hudson observed, moving closer to him and wrapping her hands around his. "Try to relax yourself a bit. It must be so hard not knowing what will happen to Mrs. Watson, but doesn't it help a little knowing that Mr. Holmes will be working tirelessly on this case until it is solved?"

"It helps me a little, I suppose, but I can't say the same for him." Watson took a drink of the tea, attempting to let the warm liquid seep right into his fear-stricken heart. He tried to push away the thousands of worried thoughts that were trying to penetrate his line of thought and instead place all confidence in Sherlock's abilities.

"I should think being on a case after such a long time after not doing anything is better for Mr. Holmes' health, even with his expected tendencies while he is working so hard. It will all be alright, Dr. Watson. You'll see," Mrs. Hudson stood up and smiled encouragingly at the pale doctor. There was a sudden knocking upon the door, and Mrs. Hudson rushed off to answer it.

"Perhaps that is who Mr. Holmes has contacted to come here," Mr. Ripley considered, looking at his employer for a response, though he didn't get one because Watson had stood up abruptly and followed Mrs. Hudson to the doorway where a short man stood with a black hat in his hands. The man had been in the middle of a sentence when he spotted Dr. Watson and stopped speaking abruptly. Recognition lit up his previously flustered-looking face, and he raised a hand to point Watson out to Mrs. Hudson, who stepped back to allow the doctor room to come closer.

"I know you! You're Dr. John Watson!" The short man exclaimed, his thin cheeks wrinkling as a smile spread across his face.

"You've read my stories about Sherlock Holmes and his cases, I presume?" Watson was used to being recognized more often by readers of his stories and it was no surprise now that this visitor had correctly guessed his identity.

"Actually, I haven't. You see, Dr. Watson, I'm a hansom driver and I have driven you and Mr. Holmes once before. It was a long while back though, I believe. I came to this address by the instructions of Mr. Holmes, and he said I was to find Dr. Watson and give him a list of everywhere I've been in the last twenty-four hours. Now I couldn't completely remember everything, but I drew up a relatively accurate list." The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper, handing it to Dr. Watson with a proud smile on his face. "Mr. Holmes said the two of you were on a very important case, and if I could provide you with this list, it may very well help in the investigation. I thought: anything I can do to help the great Sherlock Holmes and his colleague, Dr. John Watson! I have a cousin, you see. Her name is Helen Stoner. Mr. Holmes and yourself were quite the help to her, and I quite jumped at the opportunity to repay you for the help you have given her,"

Watson took the note from the hansom driver, taking a moment to completely take in everything the man had said. He very much remembered the woman that the driver mentioned, recognizing the name immediately and attaching it to the case which he had written about and titled The Adventure of the Speckled Band. It was quite the coincidence that this hansom driver was her cousin, and Watson was able to guess that he was the driver of the hansom with a limping horse – the one that Sherlock had meant to find.

"Thank you very much for this information, then. I know it will help greatly in the case," A smile lit up Watson's face as he was instilled with new hope that things were going to be alright after all. He never doubted his friend's abilities; it just took some progression in the case for proof that everything would be fine.

"I should be off, though. I'm glad I could be of assistance! Perhaps I will see you on another occasion, Dr. Watson. Goodbye until then!" The short man bowed out of the doorway and turned to leave after Watson bid him farewell. He passed Mrs. Hudson and returned to the study where Mr. Ripley sat, drinking his tea. The doctor didn't hesitate for a moment before unfolding the piece of paper in his hand and studying the last few stops the driver had made within the past twenty-four hours. Surely enough, the street upon which Sherlock had done some investigating earlier that morning was listed twice, with the address of some sort of warehouse in between.

"It seems you are getting closer to finding Mrs. Watson, and I do hope you have good luck when you investigate that warehouse," Mr. Ripley said after Watson showed him the slip of paper that had induced a fresh amount of confidence into his system.

"I'm more anxious than ever now for Sherlock to get back and tell us what he's discovered," Watson said and tucked the piece of paper into his pocket for safekeeping. It would prove to be quite useful, and maybe some of the other stops the driver made before the three that meant the most to Watson would mean even more to Sherlock, who had quite the ability of seeing things that nobody else could.

Time passed slowly as Watson anxiously awaited the return of Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson set dinner on the table and called Mr. Ripley and Watson to eat while they were waiting. They ate mostly in silence, glancing toward the window every once in a while, imagining the figure of Sherlock Holmes walking up to the door of 221B Baker Street. As Watson was finishing the last of his meal, Mr. Ripley pointed out of the window abruptly and claimed that Sherlock was finally arriving. Upon looking out the window, Watson saw that Mr. Ripley was right, and jumped up to meet his friend at the door to see what he had discovered. Sherlock vaguely went over the events during the hour he was absent, telling Watson and Mr. Ripley of how he had meant to wire with a description of the hansom cab's horse, but had come across the man completely by chance, and had sent him over to the apartment where he ordered Watson to wait. Then he mentioned having tailed someone for some time, but would not give more detail upon the matter even when Watson and Mr. Ripley questioned him, completely intrigued.

"All that matters is the fact that none of our leads have taken us to dead ends thus far, and we are making progress on the case." Sherlock concluded. "Our next move would be to inspect this warehouse, though I strongly suggest we leave at a later hour when we have the cover of nightfall."

Mrs. Hudson stepped into the room and fixed her gaze upon Sherlock, an unmistakable sternness in her light hazel eyes. "Mr. Holmes, will you be having dinner? Mr. Ripley and Dr. Watson have already had theirs while waiting for you, but I can heat the meat up on the stove if you're hungry." It was clear that she wished Sherlock to eat, rather than skipping meals as he often did when in thoroughly depressed or eccentric moods, or when on an important case.

"No need for that, Mrs. Hudson. I have quite a bit of research on previous cases to do that will give me pertinent information, and have no time to eat dinner. Perhaps at suppertime I can join Watson and Mr. Ripley in a meal before we leave to one particular warehouse."

"If that's what you want, Mr. Holmes, but I do wish you wouldn't start this up again…" Mrs. Hudson left the room, murmuring to herself, wondering aloud where his parents could have possibly gone wrong to allow such eccentricities in their boy.

"Will you be joining us, Mr. Ripley?" Sherlock asked as though there had never been an interruption, "you have expressed quite some interest in the case, I have noticed. It shall be helpful to have a lookout if you would come along,"

There was a pause as Mr. Ripley's eyes passed from Sherlock to Watson and back again. He hesitated, a slight sound coming from his parted lips as he began a sentence, but drew it back quickly. Sherlock kept his own gaze on the butler as the latter thought of his answer to the proposal, clearly having some sort of internal debate. "I would love to be of assistance, but I fear I cannot help you at this time. The abandoned warehouses are often used for diabolical purposes, and I fear if any harm should come to me." Mr. Ripley finally said, speaking his words slowly to ensure they all came out right. "I understand how that must sound, but I'm afraid we can't all be as fearless as you, Mr. Holmes."

There seemed to be a knowing look in Sherlock's eyes after the butler finished speaking, and Watson couldn't help but feel he was missing something quite pertinent. It was very similar to when Mr. Ripley and his friend had first spoken, and there seemed to be so much more going on behind the words being spoken aloud. He wondered if there was something his friend knew about Mr. Ripley that he was unaware of.

Sherlock nodded curtly and walked over to a bookcase that looked to be in a state of sad disorganization. There were papers stacked on each shelf and books that had not quite made it onto the shelves were stacked on the floor. He ran his index finger along the spines of large red books. He stopped with an exclamation and pulled out five of the large red books, handing one to Mr. Ripley and one to Watson.

"Perhaps if you do not wish to join Watson and myself on our investigation of the warehouse, you can help with the research that must be done before we leave. I think it should be of great assistance." The determined detective put down two of the three books he held and opened the remaining one up. "Watson, in that particular index of mine, I would like you to read up on the cases filed under January 16th, 1883, March 27th, 1883, and February 9th, 1884. Mr. Ripley, I should find it most helpful if you read the information I have collected on Mr. Anton Gerste, and Mr. Albert Eberhart."

The two men that Sherlock gave instructions to opened their books with a confused glance at each other, not knowing quite what Holmes was up to. He seemed to know what he was talking about, and even though they could not see any relevance at the moment, they trusted it would be made clear to them after gathering the information Sherlock had asked for. The three of them sat in silence, the only sound being the flipping of pages as they read deeper into the cases and profiles that Sherlock had taken the time to collect. He found it to be of great importance to remain educated in the dealings of crimes in the past, as it often helped with crimes that are being committed in the present, as well as crimes that would be committed in the future. Many of these criminals followed the same line of thought, some of them clever enough to pick up slack that others would not, while some of them were so set upon their goal that they made sloppy work of doing whatever deed they had plotted on. Watson knew that Sherlock held the example of the past very highly and often referenced past cases when dealing with present ones.

Once the five books that Sherlock had pulled from the bookshelf had been gone through, the men set the books down and looked at each other for a moment before the detective spoke. "What have you found on those three cases, Watson? A common thread, I hope?"

"Yes, there is something quite similar in all three of the cases. They all appeared to be suicides at first, but after further investigation, Scotland Yard had found them to actually be murders. The murderer had left a discreet 'calling card' of a smear of ash from a certain brand of cigar made in Germany on all his victims' necks. So the three crimes of murder were all committed by the same man – Anton Gerste. He was arrested soon after the third crime was committed, and I suppose he would still be in prison after committing _three_ murders…" Watson trailed off as he noticed Sherlock hold a finger up as an indication for him to cease the description of his findings, and pointed toward Mr. Ripley next.

"Mr. Ripley, what have you found concerning this Anton Gerste character?" He asked, folding his hands together and resting his chin lightly on his index and middle fingers as he closed his eyes to listen.

"Mr. Anton Gerste is a man from Germany who fled to England to escape his home country where he had committed several crimes and narrowly escaping the authorities there. He was found to be guilty of three murders around the London area on the dates that you mentioned to Dr. Watson, and was incarcerated on the date of February 25th, 1884. He remained in prison for seven years and there is a note of his escape quite recently this year." After Mr. Ripley finished his report, a look of fear was visible on Watson's face.

"If this has any connection with Mary's kidnappers, then…" He stopped, looking at Sherlock and expecting him to assist with the spear of fear that had just penetrated his heart. Watson desperately wanted to believe his wife would be perfectly alright if they should just play by the rules of the kidnappers, but Sherlock hadn't asked them to study these cases and these people for no reason.

"No need to be worried, Watson. I suspect this man isn't connected with that particular piece of the plot. Though I believe having this information in the front of our minds is quite pertinent. I myself have re-read the seven murder cases of Mr. Albert Eberhart – only one of which was witnessed to be the work of Eberhart, though the authorities have been unable to catch him as of yet." Sherlock motioned to Mr. Ripley again, adding, "why don't you tell us what you have found on Eberhart?"

"Of course, Mr. Holmes – Mr. Albert Eberhart is also from Germany, though he was born to English parents in Sussex. He was abducted as a young child because of a debt his parents had owed to a shady German character, and he was taken away to Germany to live with this man. It seems as though the abductor raised Mr. Eberhart to be some kind of weapon, training him in martial arts, weapon handling and marksmanship. Apparently, Mr. Eberhart has worked all his life for his abductor as some sort of assassin-"

"That's it!" Holmes interrupted, snapping his fingers. He sprang to his feet, and the two men looked up at him with the confusion that their faces had recently expressed very frequently. Sherlock's eyes slid over to the window and a triumphant grin hinted upon the corners of his mouth. "Watson, it will be a mere half hour before it is dark enough for us to investigate this warehouse at which the hansom driver has stopped between dropping off and picking up the kidnappers of your wife. Then, I suspect we shall have the next string of the case upon which we can take a firm grip and use to our advantage. It is only a matter of time, now."

"You have quite the ability to confuse people by not explaining what you're thinking, and I always get the feeling you do this on purpose, Holmes." Watson raised an eyebrow and got to his feet, with Mr. Ripley following his example. "Half an hour should be enough time to have the supper Mrs. Hudson is preparing for us so we may have our full strength while we investigate this warehouse."

"Yes, I suppose a meal should be important for replenishing energy… this may be a dangerous trip, depending on precisely when we arrive. I chose nightfall for a reason, Watson – I hope we will have the advantage of knowing what is going on,"

"_You _know what's going on, you mean. I don't have the slightest…" Watson mumbled, a bit put off by his eccentric friend. He would prefer to know more, especially now that Sherlock was mentioning it could be dangerous.

"Be sure to bring your revolver when we leave, Watson. I wouldn't want to take any risks." Sherlock sat at the table and tucked the napkin into his shirt that Mrs. Hudson had set while they were still studying the books he had pulled out from the shelf. "Here comes Mrs. Hudson with our supper."

The landlady stepped in through the doorway, holding a silver platter with a dome lid on top of it. Watson and Mr. Ripley took their seats as she set it at the table, taking off the dome lid to reveal a steaming chicken, cooked to golden-brown perfection. "I don't know when I'll get you to eat again, Mr. Holmes, so I thought I would cook up a nice meal for you when I knew you would actually take the time to enjoy it."

"And enjoy it I shall. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock grinned fleetingly up at the landlady who exited the room with a sigh. It was quite the task to be involved in the day-to-day life of Sherlock Holmes.

The three men thoroughly enjoyed the meal cooked for them by the talented Mrs. Hudson, with Sherlock making conversation about musical theory and some of his favorite musicians, in quite a good mood now that he had picked up on a good trail. The details of the case were certainly becoming apparent to the detective, making things a shade darker and a little more confusing, but that's what led him on with such a passion. He knew there was an end in sight, and that's what he constantly worked towards. There were always clear beginnings to the crimes, and justified endings when he had solved them. This case was no different, save for the fact it was happening presently, and it was giving him the adrenaline rush of investigating the facts, piecing them together, and solving the mystery. The positive and passionate energy emitting off of Sherlock had also given Watson a confidence that he had ceased to obtain previously, as well as a feeling of nostalgia for the times he had experienced numerous adrenaline rushes with Sherlock while upon more dangerous cases, as well as the extremely intriguing ones.

After finishing their meal, Watson and Sherlock stood from the table, leaving Mr. Ripley who wished them good luck on their investigation. They left the house after grabbing their hats and jackets and hailed a hansom cab, giving the driver the address of the warehouse. Watson looked at his friend. "How did you know I had my revolver, Holmes?" He asked.

"Simple. You never go anywhere without it. But the reason why you would want to bring it to visit escapes me entirely."

The reason why Watson had brought along his revolver was simply from knowing how things had played out in the past. Sherlock would always find a way to drag Watson into cases he might typically want to keep out of, either by giving fascinating details that Watson would desperately want to chronicle, or by describing a seemingly desperate situation that would guilt Watson if he didn't assist. He was never sure when this was to happen, and he couldn't have Sherlock running around without someone that was at least remotely sane. Watson was sure his friend lost the description of being sane far before the two even met. In that way, Watson felt it was necessary to always prepare for the worst, because despite those spans of time where Sherlock had nothing to work on, mystery seemed to follow him around.

The scenery changed from quaint neighborhoods with houses lining the streets to large empty spaces with sturdy buildings placed here and there. There were gas lamps attached to the sides of the buildings, some of them shining through the dense fog, some of them turned off and barely visible through the dark layer of night. The hansom came to a halt just as Watson was beginning to wonder when they would arrive at their destination. Sherlock paid the driver and gave him instructions to wait around the corner until they returned, tipping him a half guinea for his assistance and patience.

The two men got out of the carriage and stood in the cold as the hansom drove away to wait for Sherlock and Watson to finish their business at the warehouse. Sherlock looked around cautiously, his breathing slow and coming out in visibly even puffs in the cold weather. "Take out your revolver, Watson and make sure you are prepared for any trouble at all," He ordered, and the doctor did as he was told.

Watson followed Sherlock's swift yet silent movements to the right side of the warehouse, where there was a pile of crates and small rectangular windows covered with grime. Sherlock climbed the pile of crates and peeked through the window, squinting his eyes in an attempt to see better through the dirty windows of the warehouse. Watson tried to read the detective's expression as he held his revolver tightly in his right hand, wondering what the danger was that Sherlock mentioned was a possibility. Climbing down from the crates, Sherlock crossed to the front of the warehouse with Watson close behind and examined a padlock that held the large doors shut. He didn't intend to let this stop him, however. He opened a pack of tools he carried and took out two small silver tools to try picking the lock.

"This is an absurd lock…" Sherlock commented, stepping back from the door and turning around to lean into the light provided by a gas lamp across the way. Watson raised the revolver and with a bang and a quick _ping_, the lock fell on the ground. Sherlock turned around in alertness to the sound, with his eyes darting toward the lock lying on the ground, and then falling upon his companion. "That works as well." He commented shortly, as Watson grinned.

The two of them pushed open the large warehouse door and it gave a large metallic groan as the speed at which it moved slowed. The floor was covered in dirt and a mess of footprints, and there was a large collection of dust floating in the air that caused them to cough. They waved their hands in attempts to clear the dust and walked further into the large, abandoned warehouse. Watson walked slowly up the right side of the warehouse while Sherlock investigated the left side. There was a tense silence, as neither of them knew quite what to expect from the mysterious building. They knew it must have been used recently for something.

"Holmes!" Watson cried out suddenly, stopping short of an abnormal lump covered with many layers of mesh netting. Sherlock ran over to the location of the doctor and looked upon the lump. Their eyes fell upon a pair of shoes sticking out from the end of the layers of netting, one relaxed on top of the other. They were clearly still being worn by someone – someone that was obviously dead. Watson watched with a feeling of horror twisting in his stomach as Sherlock lifted the netting layer by layer off the body, finally revealing an average-sized man with a strained expression on his face, his green eyes void of any life. The man's skin was pale, and he was quite cold according to Sherlock.

The detective took a step away from the body and asked his colleague for an estimated time of death. Watson examined the body of the light-haired male and told his friend that the man had been dead for nearly a day now. The man was wearing a suit, which Sherlock then wasted no time examining the pockets of.

"Ah, his card," Sherlock murmured, pulling a small rectangular piece of sturdy paper out of the man's right pocket. The man was evidently a lawyer by the name of Bradley Boswell. "I'm not familiar with the man, but as a lawyer, he undoubtedly had enemies…" The detective paused and Watson waited for him to vocalize wherever his train of thought led him next. "…but they didn't get the chance to get to him first. Look, Watson!"

Watson's eyes followed the invisible path traced by Sherlock's pointing finger, and instantly recognized the smear of grey ash upon the man's neck. He was suddenly quite glad they did that research before leaving, or else it would have meant nothing to him. There was always the chance that Sherlock would recall something from the indexes he put together himself.

"Either Mr. Anton Gerste had some personal vendetta against this unlucky lawyer, or there is a bigger picture here." Sherlock speculated, picking up a cigar stub with a small imprint on the bottom that described it as being made in Germany. "I am betting on the latter,"

"Look what I found, Holmes," Watson had been going through the pockets of the man as Sherlock studied the cigar stub and had found a slip of paper in the man's waistcoat pocket. He handed it over to his friend, who studied it and his eyes lit up when he finished reading.

"It seems Bradley Boswell was a gambling man, not unlike yourself, Dr. Watson."

"Really, will you never let that go, Holmes?" Watson frowned and his friend chuckled.

"This gives me an idea, Watson. If you are willing to comply, of course." Watson didn't much like the glint in Sherlock's eye, knowing that he was involved in whatever plan his friend was cooking up. It was just fine that Sherlock should find entertainment somehow, but the doctor hoped it wasn't completely at his expense. He couldn't begin to guess what Holmes had in mind.

"If it should help the case, I suppose. But I don't like the way you're going about this."

"How long has it been since you've practiced your habit, Watson?" Sherlock asked, composing his features and looking at his baffled friend expectantly.

"I was under the impression you didn't like it when I gambled."

"Correction – I don't like it when you gamble away your share of the rent,"

"That only happened once, Holmes."

"Once? Three times, by my count. Would have been four if I hadn't caught you before it was too late. Stop avoiding the question now, Watson."

"I stopped myself from continuing as I was fully aware the odds were against me, thank you. And it's been nearly two months."

"Two months? Tsk, tsk. I would have expected at least a bit longer. It is fortunate in this case, however. I trust you're not too rusty?"

"I've come to believe I have quite the penchant for gambling, actually."

"But you have a terrible poker face. I see you fail to hide your ego at this moment,"

"You want to talk to _me _about egos, Holmes?" Watson asked, raising an eyebrow.

"No need to get personal, Watson." Sherlock threw his hands up and stood, rubbing his chin for a moment. "I'll tell you my intentions when we get back to Baker Street. For now, I think we should leave Mr. Boswell to his thoughts and let the authorities know where he is."

Watson followed Sherlock out of the warehouse and the two of them walked back to where the hansom driver was waiting. They rode back to Baker Street where they filled Mr. Ripley in on the results of their investigation in the warehouse, and Sherlock informed Watson that the following night, he would get a chance to use this wonderful 'penchant for gambling' of his.

* * *

A/N: So, the third chapter is up! I think that makes up for the wait between the first and second chapters. Feel free to leave reviews so I know what your thoughts are. Plus, you may have noticed that I described Sherlock's eyes as being brown when anyone who has read the stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle knows very well they are grey. This is because I'm trying to suggest picturing Sherlock and Watson as portrayed by Robert Downey Jr. and Jude Law in the 2009 movie. Of course you can picture them however you wish, it's just a suggestion.

Enough ranting, anyways - expect chapter four relatively soon. I'm looking forward to writing it, because it's going to be a LOAD of fun!


	4. The Gambling Game

The following evening, Sherlock gave Watson full detail of his plan, leaving the doctor looking at his friend incredulously. The two of them were alone in the study, as Mr. Ripley had decided to make himself useful and assist Mrs. Hudson with cooking and serving supper. There was a silence as Watson paused to regroup, thinking of the plan his friend had went over with him.

"You mean to tell me that you want me to go to the Cursed Mermaid Pub where you assume there will be a man who has recently escaped from prison, and you want me to _gamble_ with him? Not to mention the fact that you want me to gamble until I have 2,000 pounds of winnings, because you actually plan to give the money to the kidnappers of my wife?" Watson was taken aback at the plan of his friend. It seemed quite absurd to him that Sherlock would knowingly place him in a position of possible danger for almost no reason at all.

"You seem to have a firm grasp of what the plan is." Sherlock responded. "If all goes well, we will have an assured sum of two-thousand pounds which we can put aside for the sole purpose of giving to the kidnappers, having almost an entire week to decide a plan of action regarding that matter."

"And while I am risking my life gambling with Anton Gerste, exactly where will you be, Holmes?"

"I have a client who needs some assistance. It is a matter which should be solved quickly,"

"How can you be certain Gerste is going to be at the Cursed Mermaid tonight?" Watson was trying to ease himself into the idea of gambling with such a man when the previous night he had seen a victim of the German criminal.

"Because I have asked the message to be passed along to him, requesting his presence at eleven o' clock tonight. If everything has gone according to plan, he will be there. You must make sure you remain completely alert and don't forget your revolver. It will be fine, Watson. Nothing to fear,"

"Excluding the fact my life is in danger, of course…" Watson mumbled, watching Sherlock make his way to a desk upon which he kept many copies of the daily papers.

The detective picked up the most recent issue of the Daily Telegraph and read the front page with a great level of concentration. A hint of stress could be read upon Sherlock's face and it was anything but reassuring to Watson, who was quite anxious for the part he had to play tonight. He was curious as to the contents of the news that seemed to have such an effect on his friend and was about to ask when Sherlock handed the paper to him and pointed out the front page.

"Four deaths, Watson. Four of them within two days." Sherlock said. Watson ran his hand over the paper to run the crease out of it and began reading the article.

Both the homeless man in the alleyway and the lawyer, Bradley Boswell, were mentioned alongside two other names Watson didn't recognize. The doctor's face echoed the stress that the consulting detective's had expressed just moments before, but with considerably more worry. It seemed quite unnatural that these deaths should be occurring in such a short amount of time, and knowing for certain that the lawyer had been murdered was not a particularly encouraging piece of information. Before Watson could make a comment to his friend that expressed his worry about the article, Mr. Ripley entered the study with a suspiciously guarded look on his face.

"Supper is ready." Mr. Ripley stated whilst gesturing toward the door. Watson and Sherlock exchanged glances before rising from their seats and following the butler to the kitchen, where Mrs. Hudson had just set the main course upon the table. Mr. Ripley joined Sherlock and Watson at the table after Mrs. Hudson went back into the kitchen to tend to the dishes.

"Another wonderful meal, courtesy of Mrs. Hudson and Mr. Ripley." Sherlock observed aloud while taking a few quick glances at the rather stiff-looking Mr. Ripley as he sat.

"I expect you to eat it, Mr. Holmes!" Mrs. Hudson's voice called out from the kitchen.

"Have you made any sort of plans to follow what you found last night?" The butler asked in a strange sort of strained intrigue.

"Yes, Holmes has come up with a simply _brilliant _plan that I cannot wait to play a part in." Watson relied on his sarcastic comment to relieve some of the worry he had felt from the anxiety of carrying out the plan he had just described, and from the newspaper article he had just read. Trouble could never stand alone, but always seemed to come in threes, as they say – first the kidnapping of his dear wife, then these deaths – Watson didn't want to know what might come next.

"The intention is to win a bit of a gamble to pay Mary's kidnappers the sum they have requested," Sherlock elaborated after Mr. Ripley looked at him for the information Watson was referring to. The detective turned his gaze back to his anxious friend who sat on the other side of the table. "It won't be too difficult. Almost enjoyable, I'd say."

"In any other situation, _maybe_," Watson narrowed his eyes at Sherlock, not particularly glad to have such an important job thrust upon him, and even less pleased about the mixed messages Sherlock was sending him about his gambling habit.

"Perhaps you ought to adjust your perspective then, Watson. After all, it _is _to get your beloved Mary back, is it not?"

Watson said nothing in return, knowing that Sherlock was right. He would do anything to get Mary back, even if it meant risking his life. The matter of knowingly putting himself into a potentially lethal situation was a bit different, but somewhere he knew that Sherlock wouldn't be sending him into the pub with that felon if there was even the slightest chance he thought Watson wouldn't be able to handle himself. It would simply be a game of cards resulting in a nice, round amount of winnings if he was lucky enough (and cheated to the best of his ability).

Supper was finished without any more mention of the task that Watson was expected to complete, and as soon as Sherlock was done with his supper, he excused himself from the table, claiming he was off to prepare to meet with the client he had mentioned to Watson previously.

Watson moved to the study, where he sat stiffly at the end of a chair with his pocket watch in hand. Every second that ticked by added to the uncomfortable stirring in the pit of Watson's stomach that doubled his nervousness. He knew he would have to regain composure before he went so he could perform a proper poker face and not let any of his intentions be known to the man whom he was supposed to have this game of high stakes with. The matter of high stakes to Watson was not of the money involved, but instead of the scenes that he allowed to play out in his mind of what could possibly happen if the other man lost. If he had a nasty temper, Watson was sure he would be doomed, though he could only find solace in the fact that the other man might not want to murder Watson in a public place where everyone would be able to see. He hoped so, at the very least.

The time to leave for the Cursed Mermaid Pub came and Watson was able to stave off the feeling of nervousness that had been nesting in his stomach. Matters called for him to be composed, so that is what he planned to do. After bidding Mr. Ripley farewell and feeding an invented story to Mrs. Hudson about going to buy some items Sherlock had called for, Watson put on his hat and coat and called for a hansom to take him to the pub. It was only a matter of time before he was faced with a man that had committed several murders. If he played his cards right, he might be able to avoid being the next victim of Gerste and the next death listed in the Daily Telegraph. The only positive thought in his mind that he repeated to squeeze out any other negative thoughts was the fact that this was all for Mary.

Watson ignored the knot in his stomach as he listened to the clicking of the horses' hooves, which reminded him of the slow ticking of each second on his pocket watch passing by, but only seemed to make the time pass by four times as fast as the horses' hooves clicking on the road happened much more often. When the hansom stopped, Watson put on a brave face, took a deep breath and exited the carriage, paying the driver before stepping up in front of the pub. The name of the pub painted on the front told him he had come to the right place, and there was no turning back now. He had to put his faith in Sherlock's decisions and remind himself a hundred more times that this was all for Mary.

Entering the pub with a casual gait, Watson looked around at the types of people who occupied it at such an hour. The barman was talking animatedly to a rather strong-looking fellow with a menacing look on his face, and sitting on either side of the menacing man was a man with a red face swaying on his stool and another man who checked over his shoulder at random intervals as though he were expecting someone to sneak up behind him. There was also a lady standing at the corner of the bar counter, waving and giggling at some man and trying to get him to come over and talk to her. With Watson so engaged at looking at the types of people occupying the bar, he mistakenly ran into yet another menacing-looking man with an eye patch.

"Pardon me," Watson apologized and tried to place a smile on his face, yet he was desperately afraid that the man would pull out a gun and shoot him on the spot.

"Watch where you're going!" The man growled back at him and continued on his path to stand at the bar, where he ordered a drink.

Watson cleared his throat and tried to steady himself; beginning to look around for a man that fit the description of Anton Gerste Sherlock gave him. He moved his eyes slowly from the right of the building to the left, catching sight of a man shuffling some cards at a table. His hair was as black as the night sky and his eyes seemed just as dark. The man's nose was hooked at the end and his lips were thin and tight, as though they were holding the pressure of a thousand secrets and were straining not to let them all out. This man was undoubtedly Anton Gerste and it took a few moments of gathered courage for Watson to take his first step toward the man sitting at the table. The distance between them was soon closed and Watson stood behind the empty chair, casting what he hoped to be a knowledgeable look toward Gerste.

"You're the man that made me come here?" Gerste questioned in a heavy German accent, his voice not as low as Watson expected, but it sent a chill up his spine nonetheless.

"Yes." The doctor could barely get the word out, but he had to get a grip on the situation before things could get out of hand. He was sure that a creature like Gerste would be able to smell fear. "I heard you're a talented gambler and as an avid player myself, I had to have a game with you." Despite all his nervousness, Watson was surprised at how easily he had been able to come up with a lie and how smoothly he was able to pull it off. It boosted his confidence enough to grip the back of the chair, pull it out and seat himself down in it.

"I have cards ready. Bets?" The German man stared at Watson while he pulled out some money and placed it on the table. Gerste gave a snort and placed his own much higher bet on the table. Watson took a deep breath and loosened his tie… the game was on.

Even though Watson had no knowledge whether what he had said about Gerste being a talented gambler was true or not at the time he had said it, it was proving to be true as he played through the game. The man could bluff his way through useless hands and was incredible at cheating – Watson knew, because he counted seven kings so far. As soon as it had begun to look grim, Watson was incredibly thankful Sherlock had insisted that he didn't go unprepared. The normally morally upstanding man had numerous tricks up his own sleeve and managed to play in result of winnings of up to 2,025 pounds.

Gerste gave a low, angry growl at his ultimate loss so far, and Watson slowly moved his hand to the pocket in which he kept his pistol. The German man began to stand up in a way that revived Watson's nervousness when a man yelling loudly distracted both of them.

"I'M GONNA KILL YOU, YOU LITTLE SNEAK!" Watson's head moved instantly to where the voice was coming from to see the strong-looking fellow with a menacing look on his face that he had first noticed when he entered the pub. The obvious target of the strong fellow was the man with the eye patch Watson accidentally ran into. The strong fellow started to throw a punch at the man with the eye patch, who expressed a copious amount of surprise and swiftly ducked the punch, causing the strong fellow's punch to follow through to another man, knocking him right off his bar stool. Numerous people within the immediate vicinity of the outburst of violence started yelling at each other and before Watson could fully register what had just occurred; punches were being thrown left and right.

Both Gerste and Watson stood from their chairs at the sudden outburst, and Watson quickly grabbed his winnings before he could Gerste could steal them back, with every intention of running out of the pub and returning safely to Baker Street. Before he could get away from the table, the strong fellow cut off his path of escape, chasing after the man with the eye patch, who turned around quickly and blocked a punch being thrown by the strong man before throwing two of his own which connected with the man's chest and face. The style in which the man with the eye patch fought so swiftly and precisely reminded him instantly of something. The strong man had fallen backwards onto the ground, but was eager to recover quickly and keep his promise to the "little sneak", which was the man with the eye patch, who was making certain to put some distance between him and the man who made it quite clear he wanted to kill him.

To Watson's surprise, Gerste helped the strong fellow up and muttered something that Watson couldn't hear before glancing in his direction. Both of them made threatening faces toward the doctor who realized instantly Gerste wasn't going to let him get away with his winnings if he could help it. Watson took a few steps back as the two began to advance on him, only to trip over something and get pulled under a table. When he looked around for the person who did this, he found the man with an eye patch, gesturing for Watson to remain silent.

"You should know Gerste doesn't have his weapons… anymore." The man with the eye patch spoke differently than the gruff, low voice Watson had heard before, and had pulled out a knife and a gun from his pocket, grinning in such a self-assured way, Watson could go no longer without recognizing that this man wasn't simply a stranger with an eye patch.

"Holmes!" Watson cried out, causing his friend to quickly put a hand to his mouth to silence him. Sherlock was cleverly disguised as a man with an eye patch, and Watson hadn't suspected a thing.

"We can't leave the pub with these two still standing, Watson. It would be wildly irresponsible." Sherlock raised his eye patch for a quick moment before winking at his friend and pushed him out from under the table, then jumped up on the other side behind the strong fellow and raised his foot, kicking him from behind. The strong fellow stumbled forward and Watson, thinking quickly, grabbed a chair to smack the man in the face before he landed. Gerste had retreated closer to the bar where the other men were fighting amongst themselves. Watson followed Sherlock to where Gerste stood and blocked the path to the doorway. Watson aimed a strong punch at Gerste's jaw, causing him to lean toward where Sherlock was standing, who then grabbed the front of Gerste's shirt and pushed him toward the other men who were fighting, creating a domino effect resulting in a bigger scuffle on the floor.

A man from the scuffle stood up and clocked Watson, causing him to fall onto Gerste, who quickly took charge of the situation and rolled over Watson, pinning him to the ground and wrapping his hands around the doctor's throat, cutting off his air supply.

"Help!" Watson choked out, his eyes trying to search the area for Sherlock. The consulting detective started toward Gerste and Watson in an attempt to help his friend, until the strong fellow came up behind him and hit him on the head with a chair. Sherlock also fell to the ground, but had quick enough reflexes to get in the right position to sweep kick the legs of the strong fellow, causing him to fall onto a table and succeeding in knocking him out cold.

Now there was the matter of Gerste attempting to choke the life out of his friend. Thinking fast, Sherlock grabbed a mug from the bar and brought it hard against Gerste's head, like pounding a gavel. Gerste was dazed and let go of Watson, trying to regain his composure and stand back up to fight. Sherlock helped Watson back to his feet and the two of them stood in defensive positions while Gerste came running blindly at them, where he was met with a punch on both sides of his face from the duo of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. This robbed the German man of his consciousness, and Sherlock nodded curtly at their handiwork.

"We best be off now, Watson!" Sherlock cried out urgently over the sound of the men who continued to fight each other in a lively manner that didn't look as though they would cease anytime soon.

"Right," Watson responded, and followed Sherlock out of the pub, where Sherlock promptly removed his disguise and hailed a cab.

The clicking of the horses' hooves brought relief to Watson, now that they were carrying him away from the danger instead of toward it. The farther he was from Gerste, the better. He felt his pocket to make sure the money was still inside and gave a sigh that expressed both fatigue and relief. Watson looked at his silent friend, who had been looking out the window before catching Watson's eye.

"I'd say that went well." Holmes stated, releasing a refreshing breath of air after the excitement they had just experienced. He offered a grin at the doctor and looked back out the window before continuing to speak. "Were you able to get our ransom money?"

"That, and more." Watson replied, feeling as though all his worries were behind him. "What were you doing there anyway, Holmes? I thought you said you had a client you needed to attend to."

"I lied." He said simply, only taking his eyes off the window for a moment to glance at his friend. "I couldn't have you ruining my disguise, so I came without your knowledge. You had more important matters to give your attention to at the time anyhow."

"So why _did _you come?"

"Ever since Gerste escaped from prison, he has been travelling with a man whose aid he has enlisted to ensure that he could not be overpowered by the authorities. I did not know this for sure, but when I saw and spoke to the man at the pub, it confirmed any suspicions I had. Since he had been undoubtedly spending a fair amount of time with Gerste, I thought I might be able to get some information out of him as disguising myself as one of Gerste's past accomplices."

"And how, exactly, did you manage to get him so upset with you?" Watson only asked because there had to be a better explanation than what he told himself – it was Sherlock Holmes. Wild things like that were bound to happen.

"I was completely unaware of the fact that the accomplice of Gerste's that I disguised myself as happened to be a mutual… friend of both the men. Apparently, the man as whom I was disguised wronged Gerste's new companion in such a way that he figured death would be a reasonable punishment." There was an undertone of humor to Sherlock's voice and Watson couldn't help but chuckling himself, and shaking his head.

"You're just lucky you didn't get yourself killed, Holmes."

"Lucky? I'd prefer to chalk it up to skill more than luck, Watson. Even though it was overconfidence in such skill on my part that caused me to overlook the possibility of Gerste's companion also knowing the man I disguised myself as… and not being quite fond of him," Sherlock took his eyes away from the window and leaned back in his seat, looking at Watson, waiting for some kind of comment about his lack of sanity that he never received, because Watson felt Sherlock was completely aware of how insane he considered Sherlock to be, especially with taking risks such as these. It would only be a man who was either truly out of his mind or skilled enough to mess with an assassin and his companion. Watson believed both to be true of Sherlock – he was insane enough to find testing his skills on such people entertaining.

"Did you at least get any information from Gerste's companion?" Watson asked hopefully.

"I'm afraid you were the only one who was successful with what you set out to do tonight, Watson." Sherlock replied, raising his hand to the back of his head and rubbing it gingerly. "Though it was undoubtedly the more important of the two to get Mary back. It's only a matter of time now."

Watson stared out the window of the cab, hoping dearly that everything would go smoothly. He wasn't feeling particularly patient, and even less at ease.


End file.
